Original Poems Promoting Social Justice

Buff Whitman-Bradley

At the endOf long hot summer afternoonsParents call their childrenHome for supperAnd when the young ones come bangingThrough screen doorsTo slake their thirstAnd cool downFor the evening mealThey pour themselvesGlasses of ice water

When the kids return from schoolOn frigid winter daysAnd take off their jacketsTheir boots and hats, scarves and mittensMom sets out a few cookies on a plateThen spoons some chocolate powderInto a shiny cupAnd adds boiling water

Water in the oatmealWater in the soupWater in the orange juiceWater for boiling potatoesWater for soaking beansWater for poaching eggsWater for stewing applesWater for bathing and brushing teethWater in drinking fountains at the parkA glass of water the last thingBefore going to sleep at night

Water full of leadParticularly toxic to youngstersWater full of leadKept secret by the governorWater full of leadThat killed a dozen childrenWater full of leadCausing brain damageTo countless others

In a just worldThe wholesale poisoning of young childrenWould be a crime against humanityIn a just worldCrocodile tearsAnd intricately crafted apologiesUttered by empty suitsWould not be enoughIn a just worldThe governor and his henchmanWould be out of officeAnd behind bars

In a just world public officialsWill be decent and honorable peopleIn a just worldGovernors and legislators will not cut taxesFor the well-offThen allow essential services to decayFor lack of fundsIn a just worldHealth and safety will be human rightsNot budget line itemsIn a just worldPolitics will not be contaminatedBy the dense metals of mendacity and greedThe public good will prevailNone will be expendableAnd the water we drinkWill be pure and clean

In 2015, just 62 individuals had the same wealth as 3.6 billion people — the bottom half of humanity.An Economy for the 1% — Oxfam International

In the dreams of oligarchsThe rest of us areInterchangeable nonentitiesFaceless helots of drudgeryWho only existTo feed ourselvesTo carnivorous machines and factoriesFor the multiplication of assets

In the dreams of oligarchsWe are insects underfootCartoon roachesSkittering and scramblingMuch to their aristocratic amusementTo avoid the master’sExquisitely hand-crafted Italian heel

In the dreams of oligarchsA tailored and cologned and manicured GodSaid Let their be wealthAnd there was wealthPornographic accumulations of richesStolen from those who create itWith their labor and their livesWho watch their childrenGo hungryWho watch their childrenDie from poisoned slumsAnd lack of medical careWho watch the flames flicker outIn their children’s eyesAs it dawns on themThat their beautiful and irreplaceableMinds and bodiesAre so much detritusTo those who liveIn the pages of glossy magazinesAnd inform us who mattersAnd who doesn’t

But in the dreams of oligarchsThere are also the dark corridorsIn the rat-infested tubercular tenementsOf their soulsIn the fever dreams of oligarchsThe insects grow huge and vengefulIn the fever dreams of oligarchsLimousines sprout fangsAnd an appetite for the upper classesEstates become fetid swampsMansions decay into tar paper flop housesIn the fever dreams of oligarchsThe sweatshop destituteThe ghetto asthmaticsThe landfill dwellersThe garbage eatersCome in the nightTo kidnap their darling money

And in the dreams of the restJustice breaks outLike a sky full of kitesLike boulevards of food and flowersLike conga linesOf love and liberationIn the dreams of the restFiestas erupt in the streetsBackyard potlucks go on all nightAnd the poor dear oligarchsBecome little gray mothsBanging frantically and furiouslyAgainst windowpanes and porch lightsUnnoticed by everyoneExcept themselves

“Pessimism of the intellect, optimism of the will . . .” AntonioGramsci

At the strategy meeting to invertThe established orderCoffee and cookies are servedIn attendance are a dozen or so personsWho do not need a weathermanTo tell us that somethingIs horribly wrongAfter much discussionWe fashion an excellent planFor an action of virtually no significanceThat will likely go completely unnoticedBy the general publicAnd have no effectOn the powers and principalitiesWe will sit blocking the entrancesTo some ponderous edificeUntil after a couple of hoursThe police cart us awayWe may spend a little time in jailBut probably notAnd all will return toWhat has come to be called normalHowever

There is method in our insignificanceBecause we know deep in the origami foldsOf our ancient memoryThat for thousands of yearsOrdinary people whose identities have evaporatedLike dew from early morning grassesHave been committing acts of resistanceThat are now unrememberedAnd we know that those seemingly ephemeral actionsDo not vanishBut accumulate in a growing massEach fraction of a gramAdded to the bulk of all the othersUntil the day finally comesWhen the weight is great enoughTo flip the worldAnd none of us can say for certainTomorrow will not be that day